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I'm from Virginia.
I live in San Francisco.
I write novels and create TV shows.
My writing office is at the Grotto
I once found another man in bed with
my wife.
I am represented by WME and Anonymous Content.
I am working on my next writing project.
I am the CEO of Fishburne & Sons.
Here's a longer bio, if you want more granularity.
I’m a lifelong fisherman and was once stranded in a tent in Alaska for 21 days in a remote tent camp on the Upper Nushagak River. 
Here are the last ten books I've read.
Here are the next ten books I'll read.




Q & A with Rodes

With a hat-tip to the original . . . here are my answers to the infamous Proust questionnaire.–Rodes

What is your idea of perfect happiness?
My idea of perfect happiness is a perfect first sentence.

What is your greatest fear?
My greatest fear is that Steve Jobs was right when he pronounced that “people no longer read.”

What is your greatest extravagance?
Never second guessing the purchase of a book.

Which words or phrases most annoy you?
“The novel is dead.” Human imagination will have to die before the novel expires. And if human imagination dies we’ve got bigger problems then the state of the novel.

How do you define a writer?
A writer is someone who reorders reality into a pattern that has meaning for that writer.

What do you regard as the lowest depth of misery?
Realizing you’ve wasted time on something that wasn’t important in the first place.

What is the quality you most like in a man?
The ability to tell a funny story about himself.

What is the quality you most like in a woman?
The quality I most admire in a woman is confidence. And looking good in a wetsuit. Now that I think about it, they go together.

Who or what is the greatest love of your life?
I have this special pencil . . . kidding! My wife is the greatest love of my life.

Which talent would you most like to have?
The ability to understand—and possibly believe—Superstring theory.

What do you consider your greatest professional achievement?
Starting, finishing, and publishing my first novel, Going to See the Elephant.

On what occasion do you lie?
Very, very rarely I will sometimes tell le petite fib on the Proust Questionnaire.

What is your favorite occupation?
Casting a dry fly over feeding trout on a river at dusk while bats dance above my head.

What is your most marked characteristic?
My intuition.

What do you most value in your friends?
Not calling before 9 am on Saturday morning.

Who are your favorite writers?
Chekov, Jim Harrison, and whoever writes the fortune cookies at Brandy Ho’s.

Who are your heroes in real life?
Anybody who can take something from their imagination and make it real.

What is your greatest regret?
My wife’s favorite expression is “no regrets” and my greatest regret is that I don’t abide by her wisdom more often.

How would you like to die?
From eating an entire box of Beard Papa cream puffs.

What is your motto?
I found my motto a long time ago in a very old book. It goes back to the Roman days. It applies, especially, to writers: “When there is no wind, row.”

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When I was 23-years-old

I worked as a fly-fishing guide in southwestern Alaska. I lived alone in a remote tent camp on the edge of a river called the Nushagak (nush-a-gack). It was 100 miles by floatplane to the nearest town, otherwise known as electricity.
Which made the tent I lived in all the more important. It was large, with a wooden platform, steel ribs, and a tough, white vinyl tent covering. In one corner was a little cot. And in another a cook stove. And in another a little library, which contained two things: a copy of War and Peace, and an old Playboy magazine.
One night at 2 a.m. the tent started shaking violently. A wicked storm had descended onto my little nirvana from a place appropriately named “Cold Bay.” I learned later that at its peak, the storm’s winds reached 75 mph. But at that moment my main concern was that the tent was going to be ripped from its foundation, Wizard of Oz-style.
I grabbed the steel ribs and used my weight to anchor the tent. I was holding down the fort, literally. Every couple of minutes another super-gust would come along and the tent would swell up as if inhaling while contemplating where to launch itself into the dark wet night sky. Then another wave of wind and rain would snap the tent and send me rocking, like a side of beef, as I hung from the tent’s frame.
After awhile I started talking to the storm, trying to sooth her, “C’mon sweetheart, it’s really late and we’re both tired, and wouldn’t it be better if we talked about this in the morning?”
THWWAAAAAAAP… came the hissed response.
Two hours later I collapsed into bed. The storm had quieted for a moment, my arms were numb, and the only sound was of big rain drops stinging the tent. I called the lodge on the two-way radio. Any guide living in a remote tent camp was instructed to call the lodge twice a day. “Do it alive or dead,” the head guide had told me when the floatplane had dropped me off.

The storm had hit the lodge as well, throwing one of the float planes onto the dock and breaking off a wing.

“Sorry to hear that,” I said into the two-way radio.

“You should be sorry,” said the voice on the other end, “because that was the plane that was coming to get you. We’ll try to get out there in the next couple of days.”

I thought I’d be on my own for three or four days. Being alone for a few days was no big deal. Not getting supplies from the lodge made it more challenging, but self-reliance was part of the job. It turned out I would be on my own for 21 days. I read War and Peace twice. Strangely, I only read the Playboy once…

A lot of strange and interesting things happened to me during that time. Here’s one of them.

I had a little walkman radio, and one cassette tape: Creedence Clearwater Revival’s “Greatest Hits.” Even now, during a quiet moment in traffic I sometimes hear the opening guitar riff of “Fortunate Son” in my head. Other than the cassette tape, I could pick up one radio station, from Dillingham, Alaska, where the local DJ said things like, “Steve Pickering has a back-hoe with a broken piston he’d be willing to trade for a used snow mobile. Come around his garage tonight, but beware the pet wolf.”

One night, as I was falling asleep in my cot with the headphones on, listening to the melody that was the classified ad radio hour, my head, very gently, touched the steel ribs of the tent.


In an instant my little radio was flooded with sounds, and foreign voices, and lively music like I’d never heard before. It was as if I had tuned into frequencies from another planet.

And then I realized the language was Russian… I was picking up a Russian radio station!

By accidentally touching the steel frame with my metal headphones I had unintentionally turned the tent’s entire steel structure into the Nushagak river’s largest radio antenna. I moved the little tuning dial on the radio and my ears feasted on rock-n-roll, opera, salsa, oldies, coming from stations as far away as Chicago, New York City, and Miami.

I was so excited I jumped out of bed, quickly realizing that in order for the radio to pick up these frequencies I had to be touching the metal frame of the tent with the headphones. Which meant that to go make a cup of hot tea I had to trace the pattern of the tent’s steel ribs with my head, or risk losing contact with the outside world.

In an instant I’d been transformed from a starving man to a starving man standing in front of a banquet of delicious… sounds. I could listen to the BBC, to sports scores, and to a marathon Rolling Stone session. As I lay very still in my bed, listening to the outside world, it felt like my little existence was on the receiving end of a magician’s encore.

At 1 a.m. I moved the tuner knob on the radio and heard a high-pitched voice say “I’m Truman Capote.” For the next 60 minutes he told of how he’d thrown the greatest party of the 20th century, the Black and White Ball, in New York City in 1966. And although Capote was long dead, there was some kind of crazy symmetry about a young writer, who had literally found himself up Shit’s Creek, pressing his head against the tent in order to hear another writer tell his story into the ether.

Years later I would write a novel, Going to See the Elephant where the main character, Slater Brown, discovers a way to learn the secret stories of San Francisco. And now that you know this story, you know the story behind the story of how Slater Brown, and you too, can tune in the universe. –Rodes Fishburne